


The Geneva Convention: a three-part mini opera

by Sab



Category: MASH (TV), The X-Files, thirtysomething
Genre: (Uploaded by Punk), Character Death, Gen, Marine Corps, POV First Person, Pre-Series, Radio Drabbles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-09-02
Updated: 2001-09-02
Packaged: 2017-11-29 12:58:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sab/pseuds/Sab
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three short pieces about war. (Uploaded by Punk, from Mango.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. thirtysomething

**Author's Note:**

> I promised Jo I'd do this, in exchange for hers, and because she'd one-upped me on MASH. So here are three little things, all from articles of the Geneva Convention, in the X-Files, thirtysomething and MASH.

(Parties to the conflict shall ensure that burial or cremation of the dead, carried out individually as far as circumstances permit, is preceded by a careful examination, if possible by a medical examination, of the bodies, with a view to confirming death, establishing identity and enabling a report to be made.)

**Report**

*

"He loved you," Susannah tells me, and I tell her he loved her. You changed him, I say, and I flick my cigarette butt out into the snow.

And it's as if we want to get our stories straight, but she wants to talk about Gary, and I want Emma to know I'm crazy Aunt Melissa and I'm the one who bought her that car.

I wasn't there when they got married. Ellyn was, and she held Emma and later, she cried. I nodded like I got it. She stroked my back. "Does that bother you?" she asked. "Him getting married."

No, I said. I mean, I knew it was going to happen, I said. He loved her.

"He does," Ellyn said.

Susannah takes another cigarette, lights it off the butt. "Did it bother you?" she asks. "When Gary and I got married."

No, I say. I mean, he loved you. You changed him.

"You were his best friend," she says. "I was so jealous."

And then we're both quiet in Michael's bedroom window, because nobody's supposed to be jealous anymore.

Except that tomorrow, when everything's in order, she'll pack up the car I bought Emma for her first birthday, and she'll drive to New York. And years from now, when the car's been scrapped and Emma's grown up and she's flipping through pictures, she'll see me and Gary laughing and maybe she'll ask, and Susannah will say, oh, that's nobody, Emma. That's just someone your dad used to know.


	2. The X-Files

(Every prisoner of war, when questioned on the subject, is bound to give only his surname, first names and rank, date of birth, and army, regimental, personal or serial number, or failing this, equivalent information.)

**Bound to Give**

*

PFC Kelsey Breen was a fat little kid with bugeyes and orthopedic shoes. He'd sit in the radio room, eight to eight am, punching codes with his fat little fingers, and every couple hours I liked to go kick him around a little.

"Those camel jockeys knew you was up here they'd win the whole goddamn war, you pussy little sack of shit."

"Probably, Sergeant Doggett."

"How you ever got into the Corps' a total mystery to me."

"Me too, sir."

"Get me Sergeant Paglino, Bravo Company, over in two corps."

"Two corps' gone radio quiet, sir."

I'd smack Breen on the side of the head. "Are you disobeying a direct order, Private?"

"Yes, sir," Breen would say. "I have to, sir."

"Just get back to work, asshole."

"Yes, sir," Breen says.

Just like that, and really I knew how he'd got into the Corps. 

Because every couple hours I liked to go up and lay into Breen, and every time, Breen would take it up the ass just like that, yes sirs and no sirs, all by the book, because he was a Marine. And maybe it was me that wasn't, because that whole year working with Agent Scully I couldn't look myself in the mirror, and Kelsey Breen never cried.


	3. M*A*S*H

(No one may ever be molested or convicted for having nursed the wounded or the sick.)

**The Rules of War**

*

It's cold enough that I caught myself jealous of BJ today, wrist-deep in the guts of a split-open soldier. While the doctors worked, I warmed my hands over the body. I could see the steam rise from where I suctioned away blood.

All Dad said, really, was call the Red Cross. Call HQ Seoul. You have a lawyer? he asked. You want me to put in a call for you? General Thomas and I go way back.

No, I say, and I wish I hadn't called at all. 

I'll get through this one myself, I say, and O'Reilly looks over at me from the file cabinet, wads of cotton stuffed between his ears and his earphones. Everything okay, Major?

Everything's fine, I say. If Donald calls, tell him I don't want to talk to him. Tell him to expect a call from HQ. Tell that bastard I want my money back. But I don't say that part out loud. Radar shrugs. 

He died, the boy BJ was working on. Made it to post-op, but the infection burned through him like white phosphorus, and he only stuck it out another hour before Klinger bagged him and moved him outside into the snow.

It was the infection that kept him so warm tonight, and I flex my knuckles, because my hands have gotten cold again. I think of that boy, and I make a mental note to clean the freezers tomorrow. 

We can't just leave people out in the snow. It's not proper. It's not fair. It's not done.


End file.
